


A Woman's Word

by 105NorthTower



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Character Death, Comedy, Conversations, Distress, F/M, Friendship, Introspection, Laundry, Letters, Longing, Non-Graphic Violence, Rewrite, Soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29044515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/105NorthTower/pseuds/105NorthTower
Summary: End of Season 3 reimagining for Sylvie enthusiasts who'd like her to have been more kick-ass at the end. (1) A conversation between Sylvie and Aramis. Athos looms large. (2) Athos' thoughts. (3) Sylvie is on the move (4) Porthos and Sylvie connect (5) D'Artangan is a comfort (6) The worst Musketeer (7) My kind of Sylvie or bust.I really enjoyed doing this which was my first go at writing anything for some time. I hope it's worth a read, any comments are welcome. 🥂
Relationships: Athos | Comte de la Fère/Sylvie (The Musketeers 2014)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 19





	1. The Scent of a Night in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> This begins at the beginning of Fools Gold, and replaces the scene where Sylvie comes to the Garrison to tell the boys where Grimaud might be and looks sad. I can't have Sylvie looking sad. 
> 
> I binge-watched The Musketeers over Christmas and had a happy time, but hated the conclusion for Sylvie. I haven't written anything to share for a thousand years, but inspiration of all kinds is welcome.
> 
> Intended to be a series of new scenes that leads to a more satisfying (for me) ending.

It was pleasant tonight, warm and dry, but not so heated that the smell of the gutter was overwhelming. Aramis loitered in the Garrison courtyard, wishing, not for the first time, that he smoked tobacco. 

This would be the perfect night for it, but he had no liking for the feel of smoke in his lungs, and enjoyed tobacco only vicariously. A smoking companion would have destroyed his solitude, and solitude was sometimes agreeable.

Rolling in his mind's eye hazy recollections of the smell of that herb, at times when he had been as eager for company as he was now adverse to it, Aramis strolled towards the gate to watch Paris go about its business. On passing through the archway he was sharply recalled to the present by a contrasting odour - a bouquet of lubricant, wax and turpentine.

"Sylvie?" By the dim lamplight, he saw a thickening of the foliage that ran up the outer Garrison wall. "Come out, before the Red Guard arrive - you smell of sedition."

She emerged warily from the shadows a few feet away and took a cautious step towards him. 

"Been printing?" Aramis asked. Then, when he received no response, "Looking for Athos?"

The ghost of a frown crossed her face, but it was transient, and she answered in a low voice, "No." 

"Then what ..."

"You'll do, for now."

"I'm flattered," he said, dryly, but her demeanor was purposeful and she refused to be diverted.

"You're leaving Paris. All four of you. You're going after Grimaud."

Aramis inclined his head to one side. "Are we?"

"That's what I've heard."

"Heard from whom?"

"Aramis!" she made a vexed sound, "Are you or not?"

"That's not something I can ... operational details ... if such things were to become common knowledge ... all sorts of difficulties arise ... don't you see?"

Judging by her stony expression, she didn't see.

"Sylvie ... he won't leave without telling you."

He wasn't even convincing the rats with that one, and the rats had never stolen his musket.

Aramis considered her sceptical glare briefly, tapping an imaginary pipe on the lintel to place a full stop at the end of his imaginary smoke. "Suppose for a moment that we are. Suppose I told you as much. And you went after him yourself because ... oh I don't know, some of your usual madness. Now, suppose what Athos would do to me if you got hurt. On second thoughts, let's not ruin a pleasant night."

A shrug, as if a buzzing insect had flown too close to her eardrum.

"I'm not going after him. I don't want you to tell me anything. I have ... information. To give to you."

"What information?"

Sylvie took a deep breath and met his gaze, "I may know where he is."

* * *

"Thank-you," Aramis took her hand and squeezed it briefly before letting it drop back to her side. "I'll tell the others."

Sylvie nodded. "And you'll be sure to say I can't know if he was lying?"

"Yes."

"And even if he wasn't, he may not be there at all. And that he was trying to gain our trust but that we never trusted him, or took his money, or spoke with him beyond what we would say to anyone we met in the street? None of us."

"Of course."

"Because I don't want ah ... any of you to think he got any return. He didn't. I know he didn't."

"I know it, too. Sylvie, don't worry, I'll make sure Athos ..."

This time, a shake of the head.

"Have you and Athos ..." He struggled for the best word. "Is everything right between you?"

"It doesn't matter.'

"He's our Captain, Sylvie. We ride out within hours. I need to know if he's in trouble. It affects us all."

She looked at him, defiant now. He inwardly recoiled, in anticipation of a verbal assault, but then she checked herself and spoke steadily.

"We're becoming friends, Aramis, wouldn't you say?"

"Surely."

"And you're a godly man ..." 

(There might have been a slight change to the curve of her left eyebrow but Aramis chose not to notice it.)

"... who takes friendship as a great blessing?"

"One of the greatest."

"Your friendship with ... The Captain. It's of many years standing."

"It is." Aramis shifted to attention, hoping she would not ask him to betray a confidence, even as he asked for hers.

"And strong, from many dangers and pleasures shared?"

"Yes ..." As she idly moved a piece of refuse with her boot, he experienced the uncomfortable ghost of a foil in his ribs, too thin and sharp to cause him pain as it penetrated, but with strength enough to deny him the luxury of movement. How long had it been there?

"A friendship of trust." she continued. "An unbreakable thing."

"Yes " A man should really acknowledge when he's bested, he thought. She would not need a musket this time.

"Then, my friend," (there was the honey, before the sting) "if you want to know The Captain's mind, I believe you must speak to him. I cannot help you."

She smiled and rose towards him, as if to place a kiss on his cheek, but only whispered, "To Éparcy, within hours, then?"

The foil left his chest without drawing blood, and she was gone, trailing the scent of her word behind her.


	2. All Kinds of Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos goes to a meeting about strategy, but doesn't really attend.

"My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have lived.”  
Dickens, Charles (1859). A Tale of Two Cities.

He could not go there. It was over.

Blasted.

Nothing could be salvaged from the wreckage.

_"Now the first twenty leagues are familiar to each of you and the dangers well known. I suggest we avoid the roads and take the very scenic route, he'll be expecting us to try and catch him up, so it should keep us out of trouble ..."_

As he listened to Porthos describe the route to Éparcy, his handsome features betrayed none of his turmoil: he was, when all was said and done, The Captain. Not only that, but The Comte. A Comte without land, grandeur or droit, to be sure, but still able to wear the mask when it suited.

The mask had slipped, of late. He had allowed it to slip. He had no right to regret. The wreckage was of his own making. 

She had come to aid them. What did that signify? Only that she preferred their ascendency to Grimaud's, and who of any conscience could fail to choose the right side of that fight? It changed nothing.

_"After the monastery there's a dense wooded sector which I don't like. He could hide a hundred mercenaries in there and we wouldn't know it until we were close enough for dancing."_

He had been right to delegate strategy to Porthos. It was a good plan. 

The first glimpse of her came to him most often. Eyes bright with fear and defiance. Musket pointed, not at his heart as a tawdry romance would tell it, but at his gut to inflict the most pain. He was drawn to her even then, surveying her like a potential ambush point while hearing himself speak some nonsense about lethal range, until she let the weapon drop into his open hand. 

He'd never noticed her before then, but afterwards, he saw her all the time. (You know where I am, she said, and kissed him. Was that what she meant? That they would never again be unaware of each other?) In the street, busy negotiating for squashed fruit on market days. In the cafes, moving with swift purpose between the drunk and the venal. In a fight, hurling herself with improvised weapons to the fray. In the camp, when the refugees were threatened, or anxious or roused, like her pulse and the throb of St. Antoine were one and the same.

_"Now here, our path crosses the route he's likely to take. He'll be long gone, of course, but with the rains we'll be able to see he's passed and take a good guess at who is with him."_

Did she always mean to haunt him, then? For a long time he had vacillated: it would violate his sense of duty (she was in some measure under his protection), yet he could take this pleasure if it was freely offered, yet she wasn't a woman to be trifled with, yet she knew her own mind, yet she had just lost her father, yet didn't he deserve some release? yet he was married and his wife lived, yet his wife might be dead or in England, yet she was treasonous and he was the King's man, yet, yet, yet ... 

Finally, the frantic race through the city, when he'd known for certain that however inappropriate this may be, it was right.

Where was his certainty now? Where was he and where had he been these last weeks? He wasn't a man who wavered. He didn't precess around what he must do like a spinning top circling its dropping point. He did his duty without procrastination. He did what was right.

Fevered encounters, interrupted in the rain, bound in the slums, denied then released, fulfilled then denied again. Stop. He was not in his right mind already. He would go mad if he thought of her. The game was on and he must be in entirely in it.

_"Plenty of sniping opportunity here, so we need eyes and ears open and weapons primed. No mistakes. I'll lead us, Aramis will guard the rear, D'Artangan, take the left. Athos, you asked to be where the danger is greatest, that's on the right."_

He had no right. The mask must remain.


	3. Original Sources

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events on the road to Éparcy.

(1) Poster, lately appearing throughout St. Antoine, with amendment

**** CANCELLED ****

CAFE PROCOPE  
is proud to host

A MEETING

at sunset or thereabouts on the feast of St Alban the Martyr

to discuss the MANY and DIVERSE TECHNIQUES that may be employed by the POOR WOMEN OF PARIS when EMBROIDERING

at which the good 

MADEMOISELLE S-----

recently restored to us after her ADVENTURES in the LOW COUNTRIES, will speak, both towards her ESTEEMED FATHER'S style, so UNIVERSALLY ADMIRED and COPIED, and to HER OWN SKILLS AND INVENTIONS, which may truly be said to revolutionise NEEDLEWORKING for the advantage of all French citizens

The meeting will end with a discussion at which all are welcome to speak

WINE WILL BE SERVED IN MODERATION AND OUR WATER IS THE FRESHEST IN PARIS

ALL WELCOME

INSPECTION OF ATTENDEES  
In these violent times we hope our patrons will submit for their own safety: M Procope will remove weapons at the door and gives notice he may refuse admission, even to the King's men. Women and children may enter without suspicion.

Cafe Procope, Rue du Mousquet, St. Antoine

**** CANCELLED ****

(2) Letter, from Mme Michelle Chastain, to her sister Mlle Hortense Berger, dated the day after the Feast of St. Alban, 16--

My dear Sister,  
I write to beg your forgiveness for not spending the feast day with you as promised. My departure was prevented by strange circumstances and, even now, I am unable to begin my journey. This brief account must excuse me until I can be with you again.

I was almost on my way, the cart was waiting in the yard to bring me, when we saw a group on horseback coming down the long path. Dear Chastain, who is ever watchful in these dangerous times, told me to hide in the usual place, and sent the maid to me. It was lucky he did, because it was clear what type of men they were as soon as they arrived.

Sister, they shouted for horses, they shot their weapons at the flock, they wanted food, they wanted brandy and wine, they wanted apartments to themselves, they asked if there were any women they could visit in the village, to be brief, the list of trouble they did NOT intend putting us to would have been considerably shorter. They were hard on anyone who denied them and when no excuse for a blow or kick presented itself they fought amongst themselves.

Sophie and I stayed in our coze, silent and still as the grave, but it cost me much to hear my husband and the boy so ill-treated. It grew dark and, just as I thought they would never rest, they were quiet, and Chastain brought us meat and drink and bade us both stay concealed until the leader slept also. He was awake, then, but in a coze of his own by the fire.

So we stayed and Chastain didn't return, so we thought that the leader did not sleep. At midnight Sophie fell into a doze despite it all, and I was bold enough to creep out of our hiding place and peek into the yard. I can do so quite concealed using a small window in the eaves. They had put a man by the trough but he was sleeping very soundly by then, and I was about to lean out a little further when I saw a shadow emerge from the hayrick. 

At first my heart stopped because I feared a second lookout, but soon I saw it was a woman. She seemed to apprehend the danger she was in, and moved from hayrick to fence, from fence to tree, and from tree to cart rapidly with no sound, checking the yard for movement after each little hop.

I made myself known to her by whistling softly when she was near enough to hear. Chastain always considered my whistling a low habit, not suited to my position as his wife, but you see it is sometimes useful. I almost did her a disservice as she started at the sound, but she quickly saw me and so I pointed to the man. She nodded and gave him a wide berth, coming to me inside the barn.

We said nothing at first, but by dint of gesturing and beckoning her to follow I took her to the hiding place. Then we could talk if we kept our voices and our heads low.

Hortense, would you believe she had come from Paris! And so had our tormentors. She said she had hidden in a cart and followed the men by looking out at times to check the marks made by their horses. Why she followed them, she would not say, but I surmise some tragic purpose that she dared not reveal. Poor woman, if she was connected with one of those men her suffering is hard to think upon.

With such excitement I could not sleep and so we spoke of Paris, and the King and Queen, the Dauphin (she says he is bonny and just like his portrait), and all the things we long to hear. It was like having Mama back again, or bringing one of our plays to life - you remember how we always fought over who was to be Anne of Austria and who the romantic Musketeer?

Then, sister, I don't know how, we started to speak of other things. I am slow to tell you what, because I fear, if I do, it will make no sense to you. The price of bread, the numbers of prisoners, the condition of the slum houses, the plight of the war-weary refugees; I never cared about such before, but the way she spoke made me listen despite myself. You will blame me, perhaps, but you would have listened to her just the same, I know it.

She spoke too well, my attention was absorbed by her too much, because there was a boot on the ladder before we heard anything. We froze but I was quickly relieved to see the boy's head and shoulders come through the trapdoor. No doubt Chastain had sent him with a message. My new acquaintance was still, she only put a hand to her side and felt for something in her pocket, as if she wanted to be sure it was there. A rosary, perhaps.

I am sorry to have to tell you what happened next. I can hardly believe it myself yet, but you will hear it anyway and it better comes from me. 

I was not yet on my feet and had not spoken, when a pair of hands appeared and pulled the boy back down the ladder. We heard his cry and then nothing more. My terror allowed me no movement and Sophie slept still, but the woman started up and ran for the trapdoor. She hesitated for a moment and then kicked the ladder away and jumped down after it. I heard another cry and a struggle and it was over.

By this time I was numb with fright and can't be sure of my own senses. I think I fell into a faint, and dreamed she came back. She kissed my cheek and declared us friends, she told me to stay hidden and that four Musketeers would come and I could trust them but only them, she said I should not to speak to anyone else, and told me how to find her in St. Antoine if I ever needed help. Our brief companionship made such an impression on me that I imagined all of this advice, Hortense. Your sister, who has had no time for stories since I became Mme Chastain!

Sophie woke and we stayed hidden until some Musketeers really did arrive (so strange that I should imagine that and then it happen!) They found us and I told them everything and they must have cleared the bodies away before we came down, which was kind. There was no trace of her or the boy in the barn, but when we went through the yard the largest of the Musketeers tried to shield the cart from our gaze - it contained two long bundles. 

I held Sophie tight. We must have remained undiscovered because the wicked men thought the woman was the mistress of the house. If so, she saved us both. My husband was spared, although much beaten about. Later I was told that they made their escape before the Musketeers arrived. We are told not to stir abroad until they are apprehended.

I hope it will not be too long.

You affectionate sister,  
Michelle

(3) Newspaper article, dated 29 Juin 16--

LA GAZETTE  
The Editors were shocked to hear of two gruesome deaths at an Inn on the route to Éparcy, on the day before The Feast of St. Alban. An unknown man and a stable boy from the Inn lost their lives to a knife-wielding villain. The Editors pray that their earthly sins will be forgiven and urge anyone with knowledge of these events to make themselves known to The King's Own Musketeers, via Mme D'Artangan, at the Garrison.


	4. Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the events in Fool's Gold, Porthos and Sylvie make each other laugh.

"You're an idiot."

Aramis raised his hands, "Porthos, brother, remember what we said ..."

They were seated around a campfire in the woods, engaged in a discussion that Aramis was beginning to think was a mistake, notwithstanding that he had suggested it.

"... we each say what we feel, and by the end no-one has been accused of anything, yet we understand each other better."

D'Artangan nodded. "It's an interesting idea, Aramis. Where did you get it from?"

"Actually, from listening to the women." Aramis shrugged. "They seem to have a peculiar way of dealing with disagreement."

"If we must do it, let's get on with it." Porthos turned back to Athos, "I feel like you're an idiot."

Aramis groaned.

"What?" said Porthos, exasperated. "Look, I don't know if he was right or wrong to cast off Sylvie. It's not my business, is it? But now it's done, where's the gain in dwelling on it? He's off his game because of it. We're on a man hunt. Let's deal with the task we have."

"I must say I agree." Athos rose. The disdain that was the distilate of centuries of blood and title was rich in his tone and etched on his face, and he stalked off into the trees radiating hostility. Porthos lingered a moment longer, then strode in the opposite direction.

D'Artangan smiled. "That went better than I expected."

***

Porthos was settled under a large sycamore, contemplating the weak sunlight as it glinted on his blade, when he felt a sharp pain in his left ear. An acorn bounced off his pauldron and rolled into the leaf mould covering the forest floor.

He scanned his surroundings. 

"Sycamores don't throw acorns," he announced to the wood. The wood showed no sign of caring about this arboreal anomaly.

"C'mon. Who are you? Friend or foe?"

Sylvie stepped out from behind an oak.

"Oh. You." Porthos sighed. "Well, I suppose I should have expected this. Forest full of warrior women ... would have been odd without you."

She smiled. "Impressive, aren't they?"

"Why are you here, Sylvie?"

She flopped down next to him. "Paris is so hot this time of year. Wanted a break."

He guffawed. 

"How is he?"

Porthos frowned. "All the better for your poultice. I assume that was you? Because Juliette said she wouldn't spare any for us and then we just found it, outside the hut."

"Hm. My father's recipe."

"You'll have to share it with me. Seems to have got him over the worst. He's still as foul-tempered though. And no more handsome than he was."

"There's no poultice for that."

"No .. " Porthos nodded. "Nor for stupidity either. Or recklessness. Or endangering our mission by not staying in Paris and letting us deal with the murdering maniac."

Sylvie ignored him. "He was here. I almost caught up with him a few times, but he's good at hiding. Now he's gone?"

"We think so."

"Well, that's good for these women, anyway. They've seen the worst that war can do. They deserve their peace."

Porthos shook his head and looked around in disgust. "They deserve more than this. Their homes. Their husbands back from the war."

"They might not take them back, now. They've had a taste of how men can be warped. They might not trade freedom for comfort, any more than you or I would."

"What are you saying? Women hiding in caves is the natural order of things?"

"Is war the natural order of things?"

"Well, no - but ..."

Sylvie laughed. "You know, I sometimes think that men will embrace any absurdity, rather than accept the simple truth: that women can live quite happily without them."

"Sylvie ..."

"Why not? You're a soldier, Porthos. You surely don't struggle with the thought of men existing without women."

She had him there, but he wasn't going down without a fight. 

"What about ... how did the English playwright say it? The world must be peopled! If men and women are to live apart, won't the population diminish? Excuse me for the indelicacy."

She grinned, "You make a good point, but I'm not suggesting it for everyone, only those so inclined. So that's nothing that can't be fixed by half a days' leave from the front."

A jeroboam of laughter erupted from Porthos. He tried to repress it, but it threatened to fizz out of him in all directions and he let it go, roaring and slapping his thighs, his eyes watering, until he managed to gasp, "You don't mean it."

Sylvie was smiling at him. "Don't I? I'll have you know the welfare of the troups has always been a concern of mine." 

When he had sobered into silence, she continued seriously, "What I know is that these women came here to escape the normal pattern of things. That pattern damages us all. We shouldn't think they're wrong to want something else."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the last few flying insects chase across the disc of the moon. Then Sylvie remarked, "You're well read."

"Thanks for not adding, 'for an orphan' I appreciate it." He grunted, "Or 'for a soldier' - that's the other one I get a lot." 

There was a snort of amusement from his companion.

"It's good that you find my pathos amusing."

"No, it's not that." She hesitated, "I ... I like the noises you make."

He bristled and a minor rumble escaped him. Damn it all. "What noises?"

There was no reply, but in a moment he heard a small sound, a little reminiscent of a kitten trapped down a well. He glanced at her and her face was reddened with repressed laughter.

"I really don't know what you mean." He allowed a rattle like the muffled workings of a distant waterwheel to issue from his chest.

A giggle - no - a chuckle, got out and its companions were ruthlessly pinned back.

"If there's one thing I hate, it's being the butt of women's humour." He frowned, "Wait, that's not the source of these noises, is it?"

Mission accomplished. Her laugh burst out of her and he was briefly reminded of seeing a Bengal tiger break free of its restraints and take its keeper by the throat. It was a deep, rasping sound of sheer joy, euphoric and unashamed, and for a moment he felt like nothing could really be amiss if that laugh was in the world.

As her mirth subsided, he mused on their predicament. They had seen the proceeds of the Devil's work here: the King's neglect, the corruption of men's nature, the terrible consequences of love misplaced. But the company of various women had raised in him the optimism that somewhere in the distance a dam had broken and a torrent would wash away all their troubles before it. Perhaps ... and perhaps a friend of his was due an intervention, after all.

***

When he arrived back at camp, Athos was waiting for him.

"I'm sorry, Athos ..."

"Don't be. Not your fault."

"... but you're an idiot. Let me explain. You'll like this, there's tigers in it."


	5. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of Prisoners of War, D'Artangan brings Sylvie comfort.
> 
> I found this difficult to write. It might be triggering to read.

No -

This will hurt.

No no no no no no -----

I have you.

No -

I have you

No no no no no no -----

Is she conscious? 

No -

Sometimes. Sometimes not. Sometimes conscious but not ... really here.

Oh, D'Artangan, her back ...

No no -

I know, I'll get water. We can bathe the wounds. 

No no no -

Fetch some clean muslin. 

No no no no no no -----

It's my fault, Athos.

No -

It was Grimaud, not you.

Athos -

I'm here.

No -

I'll always be here.

No -

Where does it end?

No no no -

When they come after the people you love?

No no no no no no -----

How is she?

No -

She's been out for hours.

No no -

Perhaps that's for the best. Her poor back. Treville said he'd come as soon as he could.

No no no no no no -----

I should have prevented this.

No -

You tried, Athos. 

No no -

I shouldn't have ... I wanted to protect her.

No no no -

I know.

No -

Get some rest. I'll watch her.

No no no no no no -----

Constance?

No, it's D'Artangan. Constance will be back in a moment.

Is Athos ... ?

He had to go to the Palace. He won't be long. Can I fetch you something?

Water, please.

Here, can I ... do you want to sit?

Yes, if I can just ... thank-you. Why, why doesn't it hurt now? It hurt so much and now ... nothing.

Treville has been bringing medicine from the Palace. Good stuff. I think he's stealing it from the King.

He's my hero. Thanks, D'Artangan.

My pleasure.

Who's that? Who is it? Who's coming?

It's nothing, just some cadets ..

No no no no no no -----

Are you still there?

Yes, yes, Sylvie, I'm here.

I'm sorry. I panicked.

There's nothing to be sorry for.

Did I spill the water?

Only ... all over the place. It's all good. You want more?

Is there anything else to drink?

You'll get me in trouble with the chief nurse.

Well, if that happens you'll just have to go back to being a Musketeer. What is it? Cognac?

Only the best for my patients.

D'Artangan?

Yes?

Drew the short sword again?

Are you joking? I volunteered for this detail. 

Is Constance speaking to you now?

Of course. She likes a cognac herself. Um ... don't tell her I said so.

D'Artangan?

Yes.

What is it that no-one's telling me?

What do you mean?

He won't look at me.

Well ... I think he feels guilty. Responsible in some way.

I know, but that's not it. Not exactly. We talked about it ... about what happened.

That's good.

But there's something ...

Well, what did he say?

That Grimaud printed a pamphlet, that they said it was me, that it was about the Queen.

Well, that's it.

No. There's more. Why me?

I don't understand.

Grimaud wanted to ruin the Queen's reputation. The pamphlet did that. Whose idea was it to implicate me?

Grimaud ...

He didn't know we printed before. He didn't know about the new press. We only had it a few days. How did he ...

He must have. He must ... 

You know. D'Artangan. I see it in your face. 

Sylvie ...

He says he's told me everything. But he hasn't. 

I think he doesn't know how.

Is it ... is it ... a lady came to see me. She said she had manuscripts but she supplied none. She knew ...

Sylvie, don't distress yourself.

She knew my name!

Sylvie.

No -

Breathe, Sylvie. All will be well.

No no -

Captain! CAPTAIN!!!

No no no no no no -----


	6. The Importance of Clean Smalls in Wartime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little light relief before the explosive ending ... the worst Musketeer cadet ever records the events of The Prize.

Garrison Log

Log-keeper - Cadet Georges

The Captain has instructed me to keep the log this day. I will record his exact words: "Cadet," he said, "This will be a busy day and I task you to keep a log. Good record-keeping is crucial to the Garrison''s success and this will be a useful test of your skills and keep you out of trouble until we can work out why you still can't shoot straight."

I will record here that this is a proud day (is that something that should go in the log? will check with Mme D'Artangan)

Mme D said there's no need to record how I feel. She says I'm improving all the time. I will record here that D'Artangan left early, a few minutes before my log commenced - I did suggest to Mme D that he could maybe come back in and go out again so I could record it properly, but she was too engrossed in reading my opening remarks to reply. 

I visited the latrine and will record here that there were seven rats on the log when I returned to it and one of them ran off with my pen and that is why the pen has changed here.

At a half of nine The Captain left for the Palace, summoned by Minister Treville.

At 10 of the morning Mlle Bodaire waved at me from the Captain's window. Noting here that she's not visiting the Captain for any disreputable purpose, but because she was horsewhipped for sedition by the Red Guard at the behest of the Captain's wife. It is all regular and above board. She's a handsome lady and has offered to teach me how to print pamplets if the soldiering doesn't work out. I flatter myself that I'm a favourite of hers. (Mme D says if I leave this note in the log The Captain will "have my guts". I'm not sure how to take it out, will check with Aramis later).

At a quarter of eleven the bread arrived and shortly after fourteen more rats and several pigeons. I have taken the log and the pen to a safe place where I can observe everything and not get bitten or covered in bird shit.

At 11 of the morning Porthos and Aramis left for the palace, summoned by Minister Treville. They just missed The Captain, who beckoned Mme D over and they had a conversation which made Mme D look very vexed. I suspect it concerned laundry. Mme D always gets vexed about that subject and I think I saw the laundry boy with them as they went to The Captain's quarters. He is called Petr and he's very short.

Sure enough, minutes later Mme D was searching the bath house for clothes and muttering about "hide and seek" and "priest holes". She has a theory that that's where all the socks go.

Mlle Bodaire appeared at The Captain's window again. I think she was dusting.

At noon Mlle Bodaire and Mme D'Artangan went for a walk with Petr which was unusual. But with the armies of the Duke of L. massing at the city gates, who knows how much longer the ladies will be able to take this healthy exercise? They are right to do it while they can.

The Captain left again on their heels and this means I am the senior Musketeer in the Garrison. I must be extra vigilant, after all we are at war. 

Between noon and five of the clock nothing of note occurred. Just here the log is little dampened by drool. I may have rested my head on it for a few moments during this long hiatus but I was alert at all times.

I record here that the drool has made a shape on the page not unlike the profile of the late Governor Feron, god rest his soul. A good omen for the Garrison!

At five of the clock the Queen emerged from The Captain's room, which perplexed me considerably as there is no record in the log of her arriving. She left with a bundle of clothes. I did never think that Mme D'Artangan's obsession with laundry would go so far as roping in the Queen, nor that Her Highness would involve herself with such minor matters. Let no-one say our Royal Family are uncaring ever again, not in my hearing.

Starting at a quarter of 6 a considerable amount of activity occurred. Aramis arrived back in a churlish mood, followed soon by Mlle Bodaire. They shortly after left to attend prayer a St Sulpice, for Aramis is a very godly person and he no doubt persuaded Mlle Bodaire to join him. He returned without Mlle but with The Captain and D'Artangan and all three then left again, D'Artangan declaring he would go and help his wife at the wash house in St Antoine. 

Before I became a Musketeer, I knew little of the importance of washing clothes to a Garrison, but here we are, still anxious about our smalls, even as we face the duel threat of the Duke of L on one hand and Spain on the other.

I close this log at sunset, as I am sure nothing more that affects the Garrison will be happening today.

Georges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been giving it some thought and in my head Cadet Georges is half way between Mackenzie Crook in Pirates of the Caribbean and Michael Keaton in Much Ado About Nothing. Sort of a reverse Michael Spicer of his time.


	7. All That May Become A Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking over from about half way through We Are The Garrison, and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it.

"Prithee, peace:  
I dare do all that may become a man;  
Who dares do more is none" (Macbeth 1.7.45-47)

Athos had never felt the upper hand desert him so quickly and thoroughly.

"You shouldn't have come."

She had a habit of hitting the nail on the head. A directness and honesty he valued. Nothing too painful that it could not be faced. Nothing too shameful that it could not be said. 

"You have me where you want me."

This was not going to work. She wasn't going to leave even if her captors let her go. When had she ever taken the easy way? He'd shown her the path away from him and danger and she'd set up home there and strewn it with man traps.

"I want you to watch."

Watch. When he could not even look at her. Not really. And she knew. And she wasn't even afraid of that.

"She's no more afraid of death than I am."

Except I am afraid, now. Now that so much is left unsaid.

"She may not be afraid of her death."

And her death would be followed by the death of something in him. Nothing of value to a soldier. But something precious.

It was all he could do, now. It was not much in the universe of things he wanted to give her, but he would know this and acknowledge the meaning of it. If Sylvie ... he would let her know him this much, at least.

As Grimaud leered at Sylvie's belly, Athos at last found himself able to look her in the eye. She met his gaze and moved her head almost imperceptibly from left to right, and back again. Then she flicked a glance to the guard at the window. 

No words, but it was enough.

Athos threw his bulk at Marcheaux, sending him reeling back into Grimaud. At the same moment Sylvie clasped her bound hands together and threw her arms in a wide arc, striking the musket from the guard's hands. It fired as it struck the floor, throwing shot into the guard's face and setting light to the staw. 

Athos lunged for the other guard as Aramis, Porthos and D'Artangan arrived and pitched into the fight. Sylvie had taken advantage of her guard's temporary blindness and pushed him with all her might into a solid timber. He slumped to the floor, dazed 

Marcheaux grabbed Sylvie's skirt and tried to topple her onto his waiting dagger. As she kicked burning straw into his face, her momentum was arrested by D'Artangan's arm. He kicked the dagger away and pinned Marcheaux down, while Sylvie hunted on the smouldering floor for a key to her restraints. Finally free, she looked for Athos and tossed the keys to him before finding the knife where it had fallen and pointing it at the room.

The room was subdued.

Porthos had chased the guards into the courtyard and was watching, amused, as they weaved weaponless, down the crowded street, straight into the arms of the cadets.

D'Artangan had Marcheaux pinned face down on the floor and had a knee at his back, while he fastened the cuffs that Sylvie had thrown off onto his wrists.

Grimaud was breathing in short, shallow gasps, as Aramis pointed a sword at his neck and monitored the flow of his blood from a deep, bubbling chest wound.

They all seemed to realise it was over at once and turned to face their Captain.

***

"With child?" Athos placed his right hand on the pommel of his sword and shook his head in disbelief. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

Sylvie grinned. "It was getting desperate in there. Marcheaux is a loose cannon and Grimaud was losing control of him. I thought ... if I got him to believe that, there's no way he would let anyone kill me before breaking the news to you first. He hated you so much, he would have to preserve me to see the look on your face."

Athos thought there were many responses he could have made to that, but none of them seemed fit to utter in the presence of his brothers. "Well. Indeed. It was a good plan."

Aramis shot him a look of pure despair. "He must have been disappointed, Sylvie."

"Hm." Athos caught a moment of perfect understanding pass between them and felt a pang. "He might as well have read Athos the order of service for Matins."

Stung to a response, Athos murmured, "It doesn't mean I felt nothing. It just means I'm good at ..."

"Hiding things." Sylvie turned away from them all, tired suddenly. "Yes, you are."

As she left them, Porthos shook his head. "You. Are. An. Idiot. Good god, man. Get some help."

"I know it." Athos ran a shaking hand over his dusty face. "D'Artangan, will you walk with me? I want to hear about Constance. Perhaps you could tell me how the two of you ..."

"Manage the armoury? Of course, Captain."

***

Sylvie unloaded her loot onto the table. Four swedes, a large cabbage, a bag of potatoes and a jamon bone with some shreds of meat clinging to it. It was three weeks since the armies surrounding Paris had melted away, and still prices were sky high. 

She sighed, and tried to recall to mind the salty pleasure of eating a piece of meat, the like of which had been attached to that bone before it had been declared spent by the butcher and fallen accidentally into her sack. Her fingers strayed to a magenta curl of cured flesh hanging by a mere thread. 

There were thirteen to feed until next market day. Unlucky for all of them. Her fingers clenched and were withdrawn.

Soup, again, then. 

At least there was bread. "Thank-you, Constance," she whispered.

"Never been mistaken for Constance before," an amused voice chimed in from the door. Athos nodded to her but didn't enter. "I'll tell her to stop wearing leather."

Sylvie beckoned him in. "I've already told her to stop wearing her leather. If it carries on like this we'll be marinading it for supper one day soon." She sighed. "I'm hungry and it's soup day, so make it quick." She glanced at the wooden box he was carrying. "What's your pleasure?"

"I thought I was giving you time before we talked about that." He took up a bunch of wild herbs and sniffed them. "But, mindful of my commitment to ruthless honesty about all things, I must share that you look luminous today, I bathed this morning and we'll need make some space on the table."

Sylvie picked up a knife and split the cabbage in two with more feeling than the job really warranted. "Have some respect for the soup."

"I do respect the soup," he grimaced. "And I admire the saucier. Revere, perhaps. Adore, if you prefer."

"Pretty words won't save you from a sharp knife, Musketeer." She leaned over and snatched the herbs back from him. "Now what do you want?"

"I have a family."

Sylvie was rhythmically reducing the cabbage to fine shreds. "Glad to hear it. I was beginning to imagine a cupboard full of witchcraft in the palace and a line of handsome Musketeers emerging from it, naked and glistening, yet fully formed. Nightmarish."

His mouth twitched. "A family have come to me. They're from Catalan. Burned out of their home and have nothing. The father ... he's spoken against the Duke so he has enemies. They have to hide here for a few days until we can move them on."

Sylvie nodded and glanced anxiously over her rations. "You want me to feed them?" 

"No." Athos heaved the box onto her table and deftly caught a dislodged potato as it rolled over the edge. He undid the small silver catch keeping the box closed and lifted the hinged lid. Sylvie edged closer. The box contained a small musket and boxes of powder and shot.

"I want you to protect them."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously there's only one reason for a table of veg to exist in The Musketeers but I'm still too cross on Sylvie's behalf to go there. So she's getting a musket instead.


End file.
